


Sketchbook

by Sann0



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:17:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sann0/pseuds/Sann0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Please do not draw me like one of your French girls that is terribly dangerous and we're going to get caught.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sketchbook

The light from the clock over the stovetop was the only light in the camper now. The rain had made him stay, a torrent out here in the desert. Thank god for that rain though. That was the best night he’d had in a long time. Except, maybe it was to early to say that. Sniper looked at the stove clock.

Four.

Four o'clock and he was still here. He stared at him in the dark. Still unbelieving. Spy… He brought a hand down, lightly cupping the back of his head, stroking the fabric of it with his thumb. He could feel his breath on his chest, feel his heart beat. 

He needed to pee, but he didn’t dare move for fear he might wake him. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if he weren’t sure the spy wouldn’t leave right afterward with some damnably reasonable excuse as his alibi. 

So, he let him lie there, sleeping peacefully on his chest, but he wasn’t one to be idle, and he needed something to take his mind off the other thing. That’s when the idea had come. How often did he see the spy like this? Sleeping on his chest? Never. It didn’t happen, he hated cuddling. Given the infrequency of desert rain, it was entirely possible this might never happen again. Plus, the look on the spy’s face as he lie there so blissfully content, he had to, it was law. 

His fingers sought the pad of paper in the drawer beside him and he lay it on the bed beside him, fingers curling around a pencil. He sketched a few rough lines, getting a feel of the space on the paper. Then, he started tracing in the line of his body. He drew what he saw, and what he felt. The sharpness of the line at his jaw, the gentle, easy curve of his back. He knew these lines well. He’d measured them with the tips of his fingers and the flat of his tongue not four hours ago. 

When he came to the face though, that was when he started having problems. It was such a blissful look. Beautiful, but not in the way a woman is beautiful. He is rough– though he would laugh at sniper saying so. There is firmness in his figure as in his face. He couldn’t seem to get the mouth right. The eyes. The cheeks. How did he draw that peaceful look? That hint of a smile, the gentle curve of his lips and cheek and then make it fit with the sharpness of his cheekbones and jaw. And then most importantly- how did he make it look like Spy’s face right then, as he slept there on his chest after there first real night together. 

It was five by the time he finally got it right, and he was tired again. He started shading and got most of the way through before he crashed again, pencil slipping out of his grasp.

 

He woke to find the spy missing and for a moment a wave of panic followed by a crushed sort of sadness came over him. Then he smelled the coffee, and those omelets, the kind Spy and Spy alone made when he had breakfast shift. He smiled, sitting up slowly and stretching.

“I didn’t know you could draw, sniper.”

He froze, suddenly remembering how he’d fallen asleep the second time, mind occupied with the first.

“I- ah- I do a little.”

“It’s very good,” spy said, sipping coffee out of one of his mugs and wearing his old shirt. 

“Thanks, m'mum was an artist. She taught me.”

“Mmm.” He drank his coffee in silence, flipping through what was essentially a printed copy of all sniper’s memories and private desires as if it were the morning paper. He tried to remember how many naked men were in the book and how many of them were Spy. 

“Do you- draw all of these from watching or-”

“No,” he blurted, guessing what the spy was thinking. _I’m not that promiscuous, thank you._

Spy’s eyes flicked up to him, standing there awkwardly by the bed, feeling like his insides were on display.

“I saw the one you did of me last night,” he said looking back down, flipping to the next page. 

“Oh?” He tried to keep the nerves out of his voice.

“I’d prefer if you asked me before you did something so careless.” 

“I wouldn’t ever show it to anybody, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No, I trust you there, but it didn’t take much for me to get my hands on this. It certainly won’t take much for the enemy spy to do the same.”

There it was. The damnably reasonable excuse. He swallowed, feeling the sadness creep down his arm to settle in his hand as a dull, cold ache in his fingers and his wrist. He had worked hard on that drawing. Ten bucks says it was ash in the fire pit outside by now. 

“I understand.”

Spy nodded, standing up and crossing the kitchen to loop his arms around his neck. Suddenly the were kissing and the pain of loss was gone for a moment, lost in the feeling of real touch. He traced the dip of his spine with his knuckles, sighed at his neck.

 

—  
Spy had to leave after breakfast, couldn’t be caught sneaking out of his van in the morning. Secrecy and all that. He had kissed him goodbye and promised him they would do this again some time, but- that was like rain in the desert. It would come, no question, but how long? He rubbed a hand through his hair, messy with sleep, before flopping down in the booth where spy had been sitting. There was his art book, all neatly stacked as it never had been since the day he got it and looking completely violated. He drummed his fingers over the table top, finally mustering the guts to flip open the front cover. He turned and turned and turned until he came to the first drawing he’d made here in teufort, the last one before he met spy and started feeling some things for him. He knew the drawings on the next few pages by heart, and it hurt him to entertain the very real possibility that they might not be there anymore.   
Shakily, he turned the page. 

There he was, bent over the railing of the front porch, smoking, pretty eyes looking out over the messy terrain. He turned the page. There was the one of him leaning on the post with the nice view of his cute butt. Okay. So many of his favorites were still here. His hopes rose when he saw that many of the nude ones had stayed- no- all. Even the sexual ones, the nasty ones. Even the new one he had commented on. All of them were there. He could feel his heartbeat thrum in his chest, with joy and not with fear. Then, on the page behind the sleeping spy, he found a note, scrawled in spy’s cursive. 

“I am in your thoughts often, it seems, Bushman. What shall we do with this hmm?”

He didn’t sign it. He didn’t need to, and sniper knew that note wasn’t for him. It would make it look like- to anyone else reading- that his spy was blackmailing him, but to him it was spy flirting. 

_‘What shall we do with this hmm?’_

Oh yeah, he wondered.


End file.
